The American Terrorists: The Untold True Story of a Real Telepath

By Boo Marx

This is the untold true story of the only living telepath in the world. His name is Boo Marx. At the age of six, he discovered he had the ability to hear through radio waves and later discovered he had the ability to hear human thoughts.


When Boo put himself out to the public, he was soon discovered by an Elite Military Force who sought his special ability. This force was sent to train Boo for a secret government agency. In time, a commander from this Elite Force and Boo entered a serious confrontation. With the commander no longer wanting Boo on board, he and his men decided they wanted Boo dead. Instead of training Boo, they tried killing him in a very unique way. Boo simply knew too much.


It became a battle of the minds as Boo fought with his telepathic ability. The Force fought with a top secret spy satellite system. Boo had the will to survive. He fought over three-hundred soldiers with nothing other than his brain. Seven years and still going, this Elite Force hasnt been able to kill Boo. Boo is still alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496936202

Boo Marx

Boo Marx was born in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, in 1977. He grew up outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. At the age of ten, he discovered he was telepathic. He is now the only living telepath in the world.

Book preview

THE

AMERICAN

TERRORISTS

THE UNTOLD TRUE STORY

OF A REAL TELEPATH

BOO MARX

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: [phone]

© 2014 Boo Marx. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/11/2016

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3124-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3620-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Special Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

SPECIAL DEDICATION

I would like to thank all of those who helped me through these very trying times of this true story. Special thanks to those of MSNBC, especially Rachel Maddow. I would also like to thank Ainsley Earhardt of FOX News, San Diego California. Thanks for your support.

I would also like to thank Regis Philbin. It was nice of you and Ainsley to lend your open ears. I greatly appreciate it. You gave me more hope and will than you can possibly imagine. Thank you once again.

Jessica Alba, it was so nice talking to you. I have something to say to you someday that is a secret of my own and the coolest ever. You’re the best.

I want to thank President Obama. I have to say, What a weird way to meet one another. I gave it all I had mentally and even though it took a while for my act to come together I have finally succeeded. I’m even using a new tooth paste these days thanks to you.

Once again, thank you everyone for your support.

Finally, I would like to thank my parents, Patrick and Deborah; I love you both dearly. You’ve been the best parents anyone could ask for. I know you never fully understood what I was going through and even called me delusional at times, but when you read this story you will understand. This truly is a true story.

W hen I was six years old, I used to stay up at night listing to the oldies but goodies station on an old AM, FM radio my parents lent me. On one particular night late in the evening, I had turned off the radio before going to bed. But it seemed as if the music wanted to continue to play. Reaching down for the controls, I made sure the radio was off. And it was. The problem was I could still hear the oldies but goodies station. It was playing in my head. Faint, but still there. Making sure I wasn’t hearing things, I turned the radio back on. What do you know? The music in my head matched exactly what was playing on the radio. A gentleman was singing, That girl with her red dress on. Amazed, I began turning the radio on and off. Each time the radio was off, the music continuously played in my ears. It seemed I had the ability to hear radio waves.

F or many hours on this same night I lie silently in my bed listing to the radio without it actually being on. I don’t know what time it was, but I had eventually fallen asleep waking in the morning only to find I was no longer able to hear the radio waves.

For the last thirty years of my life, my ability to hear radio frequencies has randomly come and gone. The older I have become, the more frequent its presence has made its way into my life. Now, I hear the radio playing in my ears a few times a day.

What is even more amazing came four years after the night I discovered I could hear radio waves. I became telepathic at the age of ten.

In 2006, I decided to prove my gift to the world. I put myself into the public eye as a real telepath. In the process of putting myself out there, I was discovered by an Elite military force. This force was sent to my hometown to train me for a special agency.

Just before I was to leave home with this force, a dramatic change for the worse had occurred. This force decided to kill me instead.

I was tortured, raped, and brainwashed by this force for a period exceeding seven years.

They now call me Boo.

CHAPTER 1

T he story I am about to reveal is very unbelievable, but true. It is of a commander of an Elite Force who tried killing me because I had discovered too many secrets in this world. With the help of the commander’s soldiers, his tyrant behavior leads his teams to the rape of over 5,000 American civilians. Some of whom were children. Ladies and gentleman, meet the American Terrorists.

Seven years ago, I was discovered in a small town in Colorado as a real telepath. Prior to being discovered, I had many problems with alcohol abuse. My issues had landed me in prison for many years where I learned to be a better person in life as well as a more productive member in society. I can only let you imagine the hardships I went through which lead to a self-destructive pattern in life. Let me tell you, I put myself in many horrible situations throughout my journey.

In 2003, my abuse sent me to the Colorado Department of Corrections, the state penitentiary. I had been arrested for multiple DUI offenses, cultivation of marijuana, and criminal impersonation. I am not proud of my actions, instead I feel remorseful to say the least. This is why I changed my life and began to live by the golden rule; do onto others as you would want them to do unto you. I now keep this value as I live my life.

While incarcerated, I spent three years in Eastern Colorado living in an old correctional facility. The prison was set high in a valley of the Rocky Mountains under a series of snowcapped peaks. The winters were cold with snow and the summers were hot, dry, and windy.

Welcome to the major leagues, a tall skinny black correctional officer said to a room full of tattooed convicts.

You’re now in the state correctional system and the rules of survival are a lot different in here than what you are used to, he continued with a sense of the military within him.

His dark shades worn indoors made him more of a character within his own presence. His overwhelming sternness shadowed his pace as he stepped from side to side in front of the thickly glassed windows of an orientation room. It was then I felt the power of the state correctional system; a power of self-fear and loneliness; a power unknown to any other man other than those who’ve sat in the seats surrounding me. It was this power that changed my life forever.

I spent three years in an old concrete building which was originally built as a juvenile reform school now conformed into an adult prison. It was surrounded by large security towers and chain linked fences mounted with razor wire. There were four wings holding three tiers: North, East, South and West. The tall exterior walls were painted white standing under a dated copper roof of a light green patina. Each tier was lined with thick metal security doors fortifying sixteen cells in a row on each level. With cells on both sides of the wing, each unit held close to two-hundred inmates. The walls were painted tan and you could feel the tension of conviction in the air.

My cell was 6 'ft. by 9 'ft. holding a stainless steel toilet on one end and a painted steel desk directly across, but on the same wall. Opposite the toilet rested a set of bunks which were welded to steel plates fastened to a concrete cinder block wall. At the edge of our bunk we had a large glass window secured by steel diamond shaped screening. It was large enough to see out of, but not large enough to escape from. The worst part, the place smelled of disinfectant resembling that of a sterile hospital.

Everyone had a job. I worked in the kitchen at nights serving meals off the line. The line I worked on only served the South and West wings. The North and East wing meals were served in a connecting chow hall to our right keeping order within the penitentiary during feeding times.

I hated that kitchen. There was just something about it.

When I wasn’t working, I was allowed out of my cell for yard time two hours per day. My days were spent lifting weights with my cellmate James, A.K.A Peckerwood. He was a red haired kid around my age with a sturdy build. He talked a lot of shit, was funny as shit and while we lived together he discovered his only child who he adored since birth for five years was actually his best friends. I had to laugh when he told me the story in our cell one night after he found out from his mother while talking to her on the telephone.

Fuck you Boo, he said smiling behind watered eyes knowing it was actually funny shit.

He ranted and raved for hours before I told him to sit down and shut the fuck up. He stopped in mid-sentence, started to laugh then tackled me while I was sitting on the edge of his bunk. We wrestled friendly for a while before he calmed down. Before I got off him, I wisely said, What do you care, it’s your best friends kid anyway.

He laughed once again before saying, I loved that little fucker.

He spent the rest of the night telling me stories about his kid and his lady. I listened attentively thinking it was good for him to get it off his chest.

Chris was my first cellmate in the joint. He was a tall medium sized guy with a Go-tee and tattooed arms from his elbows to his shoulders. He had a tough way of talking, but underneath he was a kind heart.

At night, Chris and I liked to watch Jeopardy from our thirteen inch television screen seeing who could answer the most questions first correctly. I have to say he was pretty quick at the game beating me most of the time even though I was always there for the challenge. I had some good times with Chris and I always wonder how he’s doing.

Showers and phone time were an hour at night usually around eight o’clock. There were six man showers which you always had to stand in line for. When time became scarce, inmates would share a shower head. While one washed off the other lathered up.

During the countless hours I spent in my cell thinking about life, I was able to seek out the true me. What I discovered was a proud kid who lost himself in a world of drugs and alcohol. Angered by my decisions in life, I chose to overcome my barriers framing myself into a more complete person. My first step was to humble myself.

By doing so, I spent most of my time reading books. When I wasn’t reading, I was taking advantage of the many programs prison had to offer. I even worked in the graphics department painting huge advertisement billboards for the local softball and little leagues. It was here that I had begun to feel a sense of self admiration. A sense I still carry with me today.

Prison was full of hate for most of the inmates. It wasn’t abnormal to see a weekly fight or two over money or drugs. Other times, it simply came down to a couple of cellmates just not getting along. Confinement in small areas sometimes challenged ones mental stability. This instability tends to make an inmate act out; usually in violence.

To stay away from the violence, I minded my own business only hanging out with a small group of guys which I chose wisely. These guys were usually the more mellow types who didn’t get caught up in the prison political system; meaning involvement in racism or gang association. Involvement in politics usually ended up in disaster.

I managed to stay out of trouble most of my incarceration. I got into a couple of scuffles but nothing major. I stayed away from the drugs and the pressures inmates brought upon one another while incarcerated. It wasn’t an easy three years, but it was the right three years. I had time to find myself and a chance to discover a place I never wanted to be involved with ever again. It was a place of hell.

A year into my term, I was witness to an outrageous act of violence. Peckerwood was staring through the window of our cell door when he heard a large black man named, Shasta, yelling from a cell across the way.

We had been back from morning chow for almost a half an hour so most of the inmates were already in their beds sleeping. The place was silent except for Shasta’s yelling.

You keep banging that broom against those stairs I’m going to fuck you up white boy, he would say.

He was shouting through his cell door toward a porter who swept the tier. Each morning while the porter swept, he would bang the wooden broom end against the side of the steel stairs as he descended to the next level. Shasta’s cell was next to those stairs, so every morning he was disturbed by the disruption.

Go ahead mother fucker bang that broom again, Shasta continued with rage in his voice.

Beginning to laugh, Peckerwood looked towards me from the cell door and said, Hey Boo, check this out. Shasta is over here freaking the fuck out. James the porter is pissing him off with the broom. You know that annoying banging we hear every morning. Well, Shasta’s not having it anymore.

My curiosity had me jumping from my bunk to observe the situation. As I scuttled toward the cell door, Peckerwood stepped out of the way allowing me to see for myself. As I peered across, I could see Shasta yelling through the window of his cell.

James, the porter, had his back toward Shasta. The more Shasta yelled the less James paid attention. I could even see a slight smirk at the corner of James’ lips. He was antagonizing Shasta.

James was a white kid about medium build and height. His skinny neck and small head supported a set of coke bottle glasses. He was known for having a temper and I believe the boy was crazy.

As James continued to sweep the stairs, he also continued to bang the broom. It even seemed he was putting a little more into the noise since Shasta was so ticked off. This action outraged Shasta even more. The more James banged the broom, the more Shasta yelled.

You stupid mother fucker I’m going to get you, Shasta exclaimed!

James having enough of Shasta’s shit turned around going from calm to spastic. He shouted toward Shasta’s cell, Shut the fuck up you dumb mother fucker.

At this point, Peckerwood and I had our heads squeezed together so we could both see out of our window at the same time. We were laughing hysterically.

As soon as the words left James’ mouth, we noticed Shasta’s reaction. His mouth stopped moving and his face scrunched in anger. If he wasn’t black, I would bet he was red as an apple. He couldn’t believe the words coming from James.

Peckerwood and I couldn’t believe it either since Shasta was doing life in prison without the possibility of parole. This meant he was a killer and wouldn’t fear killing again.

Oh shit it’s on now, Peckerwood said excitedly.

I continued to stare out the window anxious to see how Shasta was going to handle the situation. He was no small man by any means and definitely not a guy you would want to fuck with since he was doing life.

Fuck you white boy, Shasta said in an almost tranquil state.

But, he was anything but tranquil. He had the look of a man who was about to kill. James, showing no fear towards Shasta, continued by starring Shasta down. When James had enough of the starring contest, he gave Shasta a cocky look before saying wisely, What?

Shasta raised his chin high in the air. With lighting speed he jabbed his index finger against the glass window towards James. With vengeance, Shasta said, I’m going to get your punk ass.

James, holding no fear returned, Whatever bitch.

Two words you don’t say in prison to another man unless you’re prepared to fight; the word punk and the word bitch. These are fighting words. There is nothing worse than these two words.

James was ready to get his ass kicked.

In those moments, Shasta disappeared from the window. Peckerwood and I waited in anticipation. James went back to sweeping the stairs still banging the broom as if the confrontation had meant nothing. Peckerwood and I knew it wasn’t over. We stood there watching waiting to see the outcome.

Minutes later, James made his way to the bottom of the stairs as the unit Sergeant’s voice echoed through the building from the intercom, Morning work lines. Doors will be opening.

At the same time every morning, cell doors opened for inmate work crews. It was at this time Shasta decided to make his move.

Still starring through the window, Peckerwood and I watched as Shasta’s cell door slid on its track opening. Before it was all the way open, Shasta squeezed through the door running at full speed towards James. In his hand, he had a wooden spike formed into a shank about ten inches long.

Wooden shanks were preferred by inmates and obtained from the wood shop. They were preferred because they were able to make it through metal detectors without detection.

Knowing the doors had opened, James turned from the stairs towards Shasta’s cell surprised by Shasta’s violent approach. Not knowing how to react or what to do, James stood there in astonishment. Before he knew what was happening, Shasta was on him. With Shasta’s right arm out wide and dagger in hand, he swung the pointed end towards James’ lower rib cage in an attempt to reach his heart.

Shasta was out to kill James and everything on his face said he wasn’t going to stop until James was dead.

The first blow bounced off James’ rib cage stilling the dagger. With quickness and furry, Shasta pulled the dagger back swinging for a second time. But, James had moved his hand to his side where the first blow had struck. While his hand was covering the first wound Shasta stuck the dagger with enough force to penetrate through James’ hand continuing into his body pinning his hand to the side of his chest.

Leaving the dagger in place, Shasta walked away. At least six inches of the shank’s point was inside of James. James was horrified.

Blood immediately poured from James’ side as he lie on the ground with a glazed look over his eyes from behind his thick glass lenses. Shasta continued towards his cell leaving James to bleed out and die. Peckerwood and I couldn’t believe it.

And what I saw next astonished me even more. As inmates approached the stairs, they walked by James as if nothing had happened. As if he was meant to die. I couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid as I watched blood pour from his body pooling by his side. He was going to die and nobody made an attempt to do anything about it.

Standing there watching, my thoughts were interrupted by the Sergeants voice over the intercom.

Lock down. Lock down everyone, the Sergeant shouted.

Immediately, inmate workers returned to their cells as groups of correctional officers raced down the stairs towards James.

James was coughing and rolling around in his own blood. Behind a parade of officers, the Sergeant followed with a body board to put James on so they could carry him to the infirmary. Within seconds James was strapped to the board. As they lifted him to the air and as they raced up the stairs blood flowed down his side leaving a trail in his path all the way to the infirmary.

I didn’t know James well, but I hoped he had survived.

We stayed locked in our cells for the next couple of weeks as the correctional officers investigated the situation. We were stripped naked cell by cell and lead to the gym where we were questioned by the correctional officers. When I was asked if I saw anything, I kept my mouth shut and moved on with the rest of the crowd. As we were being questioned, our cells were shook down making sure there were no other weapons in the facility. Later on, we were informed that twenty-eight shanks were found throughout the unit. I was shocked to say the least.

For the rest of my incarceration, I thought a great deal about James. The officers did tell us he had survived, but the occurrence left its mark on me. It made me realize how serious things were in the penitentiary and how fucked up it could get real quick.

In the end, I was glad to hear James was okay.

Throughout my remaining time in Eastern Colorado, I decided to lay low. Peckerwood was a tattoo artist so I let him tattoo the shit out of me while we made the best out of the time we had. He had a way of making life inside the walls not so bad and I loved him for it.

Thank you Peckerwood…

CHAPTER 2

A fter prison, I was released into my parent’s custody for a parole term of two years. I was free, fresh, and in search of a better way of life. I felt I had the ability to tackle the world. But, I was wrong. Within months, I was back to my old destructive behaviors with drugs and alcohol. I found myself locked in a room with a bottle in one hand and a pipe in the other doing nothing but hurting myself once again.

After a couple months of partying, I had dropped my second dirty urine screen for the parole department. With my parole officer upset with me, I was told to enter a drug treatment program for a period of six months. Feeling I let myself down, I was eager to enter the program.

The drug program which I had entered was located in a renovated community from the early 1940’s. It was a gray home of Victorian Design with large windows on the side and an enclosed porch out front. The paint was peeling from the siding and the white window trim was in shambles. There were grass yards in both the front and back of the home with patches of dirt thrown about from many long dry summers.

The interior of the home wasn’t much better than the exterior. There was old cheap short haired wall-to-wall carpet worn thin from the many years of foot traffic from recovering addicts who passed in and out of the program’s doors. The walls were scuffed from the backs of chairs which lined the dining area and meeting rooms meant for group discussions. The whole place had the smell of old furniture from a dusty attic. A smell I did not like.

Behind the dining area was a kitchen with a large stainless steel basin and a four burner stove top just as you walked in. Next to the burners was a flat grill cleaned by the clients every night after dinner. A small room just beyond the kitchen housed a double steel door refrigerator.

The main floor was primarily for group discussions such as AA and NA meetings. It had a dual purpose as a dining area. Both the upstairs and downstairs were fit with sleeping quarters. The upstairs had three separated rooms with two beds in each room. Standing at the end of the hallway stood a rundown bathroom with a leaky sink faucet and a moldy tiled tub. Each room including the hallway was lined with tread-bear brown carpeting.

The basement also had three rooms except these rooms were larger than those on the second floor and each room had three beds with one large closet. In-between each bed stood old wooden night stands with a small drawer for storing personal items. The carpet was much the same as the upstairs, worn thin in many areas. Outside of the bedrooms was a large room with a couch, a reading chair and an old color television which could only be watched at night during certain hours.

The whole house was rundown and outdated. To me, it was a very depressing place to be. But, I decided to make the most of it.

My first day in the program was a bit awkward. A majority of the clients were much older than me and the house reminded me of that of a third world country. I didn’t like it here and I didn’t want to be here.

With fifteen members on the male side, we spent our days working in a donation center which supported the rehabilitation program. I spent my days assembling old computers and stereo systems while the others sorted through donated clothing. I figured I had a good job.

At night, we spent our time in AA meetings around town. I didn’t mind since the stories people told always seemed to amaze me. Some stories were funny while others were depressing. But, each story was unique in its ability to describe the character of the tale; the person telling the story which usually ended up with him passing out in somebody’s front yard or caught by the police pissing in some random area around town. You can imagine the amount of time I spent laughing.

After a couple of weeks in the program, I became very board. I tried reading books, but my mind wasn’t right at the time. I had to find something more exciting. There was this one guy, Jim. He was a retired history and gym teacher with one hell of an alcohol problem. While at work one day, I began answering the man’s questions before he had asked them. I figured since he was a teacher, he would be smarter than the rest.

After days of answering Jim’s thoughts, Jim became very suspicious. I overheard a conversation he was having with another member of our program. He said, I think Boo is a fucking psychic.

No way, the other man exclaimed while keeping his head low looking cautiously in my direction.

I think he is, the teacher went on.

He knows what you’re going to ask him before you even ask, he continued.

I smiled as the conversation went on. Each time one spoke, the other curiously gazed in my direction.

Three days had gone by as I telepathically toyed with the teacher. Finally, I decided to let him in on my little secret.

We sat down for dinner the same as any other night. Proceeding dinner, I went down to my room where I wrote on a yellow sticky note, I’m not a psychic. I’m a telepath.

I then took the note upstairs to the teacher’s room where he was standing in front of a mirror combing his hair.

Here, I said handing him the sticky.

He gave me a crooked look before grabbing the note from my hand. I gave him a short smile then turned towards the door heading for the stairs. Descending, I took hold of the railing thinking, "He’s going to trip out after reading that one."

Once I was on the main floor, I waved to our cook who was a man with twenty years in the military as a Marine. He gave me the same curious smile he always had by tilting his head to one side smirking. With a sly smile, I turned the corner and headed down another set of stairs towards my bedroom in the basement. I then laid down waiting for the game to begin.

No more than 10 minutes later, I heard the teacher on the main floor speaking to some of the members of the program including the cook who had been working for the rehabilitation center for many years. He said, He’s not a psychic. He’s a real telepath.

The men in the room couldn’t believe their ears.

No way, how do you know, many responded?

He gave me this, Jim continued as I imagined him handing over the yellow sticky.

The chatter upstairs was expected as curious minds assembled with talk of a real telepath. I rolled over on my bed clenching my pillow within my arms. As I lie there listening, a colossal of voices filled the kitchen as more and more members gathered.

Many of the members were in shock as I heard them ask, A real telepath?

Jim was into telling his story. He said to the group, Yah, he always knows what I’m looking for at work before I ask him.

That’s cool, a member answered.

After a few minutes, the crowd seemed to disperse. But before they left the kitchen, a man named Bob decided to put my telepathic abilities through a test. He said to the other members, Let’s ask him questions telepathically and see if he answers.

That’s a good idea, the group answered.

Moments later, a tall skinny elderly man with fourteen years’ experience in the Navy stood in my doorway. His arms were held high with his hands hanging from the door trim above his head. I gazed down the length of my bed over my toes towards him observing the expression on his face. His eyes squinted and a thought left his brain entering mine. He thought, "Are you a real telepath?"

Peering back at him, I answered his question, Yes, I am.

His eyes immediately opened widely as he began to smile. Shaking his head in amazement he said, Alright kido.

He then turned away and walked out the door trudging up the stairs. Moments later, I heard him talking to the others.

He really is telepathic, I heard him say.

No way, how do you know, they responded.

He then said, I asked him if he was telepathic, telepathically and he answered me.

The others began to laugh shouting, A real telepath. Who would of thought?

The next day, I woke early in the morning. A few programmers passed my direction with strange glares on their faces as others asked me questions telepathically. I answered each of them individually watching as their faces formed in wonder. For the first time in my life, I was able to feel the effects from people knowing I was a real telepathic. I had put myself out there. And I must say, as weird as it was, it felt good.

For the next week, I answered everyone’s thoughts as they were projected towards me. Their responses were the same every time, complete and utter astonishment. I even began answering some of the employees at the donation center since word had gotten out. The reactions were all the same. Some opened their mouths in awe as others furrowed their eyes in disbelief. Some turned red in the face with shock and others laughed. I even had a couple of girls say, That’s fucking cool.

It wasn’t long before word of a real telepath had gotten out. Between the rehabilitation center and the clothing donation warehouse, close to 50 people had become aware of my abilities. It was at this moment, I decided to write a book about my life.

Part of our responsibilities at the rehabilitation center required we attend AA meetings around town four nights out of the week. Every time we went to an AA meeting, the members of my program would speak of me. Before and after meetings, I heard chatter about my abilities amongst small groups of people.

As I continued showing up for AA meetings, I started to notice more and more people from town filling the seats of Alcoholics Anonymous. It seemed I had become a hit with the locals; famous in a way.

It wasn’t long before the entire town of Grand Junction knew of a real telepath. Everywhere I turned, the story was being told. I even think someone took my picture and put it on the internet because I ran into people